


White (Is the Worst Color)

by ScumbagSimon



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, As in someone watches Ghoul shower, Better Living Industries, Disturbing Themes, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Families of Choice, Fun Ghoul Has ADHD (Danger Days), Gaslighting, Gen, I self project onto Ghoul and Kobra. in case that isn't clear, Manipulation, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Prison, Probably gonna have to add a phat trigger warning for this one lads, Protective Jet Star, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Trans Kobra Kid (Danger Days), Whump, be sure to thoroughly read the tags before enjoying, graphic depictions of injuries, if you can even enjoy this :), it's a lil depressy but!!! it will have a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScumbagSimon/pseuds/ScumbagSimon
Summary: When Fun Ghoul wakes up in a BL/ind prison cell, he’s completely alone. He’s given drugs and forced to watch BL/ind propaganda films for several painful days, until a new prisoner arrives in the cell next to him. His name is Kobra Kid, and he might have a way out.Meanwhile out in the desert, Party Poison is in a panic trying to hatch a plan to rescue their brother when they run into someone with a similar situation, a killjoy who goes by the name Jet Star.
Kudos: 12





	1. 1

Consciousness comes to Fun Ghoul slowly and painfully, with a burning sensation like boiling water in his veins. It’s not uncommon for him to wake up uncomfortable or even in pain, so that isn’t what’s bothering him. The fact that he wakes up on his back in clean clothes and on a soft mattress is what bothers him. 

He shoots upward like a rocket, blinking harshly until the world comes into focus. What he sees is unfamiliar. Where he’d normally see sand, a beat up motorbike, and his friend Jet Star sleeping by the embers of a fire, he sees a clean room, with two solid walls to the left and back, with the other two being glass. The seams are sealed with what look like white metal. The air, typically harsh and dry, is perfectly crisp and refreshing. The temperature is comfortably resting somewhere around 70 degrees. 

Ghoul knows where he is, and he would rather be anywhere but here. 

The second thing he notices after the room he’s in is the thick white bandages wrapped around his right hand. It takes a moment, but then his memories come rushing back to him.

_ The air whistles in Ghoul’s ear as his hair whips about in the wind. One arm is wrapped around Jet’s waist, the other reaching for his blaster. He turns and fires at the car behind them, sleek and clean, but it doesn’t do much damage. The road is bumpy, and the Draculoid in the driver’s seat remains untouched.  _

_ They’re moving so fast it feels like the air is being ripped away from his mouth before he can breathe it in. He doesn’t have a helmet like Jet, so there’s at least a few bugs splattered across his cheek. He can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He’s too engrossed in the fear, the adrenaline, the anger. Even now, in the midst of a chase, he longingly wishes things were different. _

_ He fires another shot. It does nothing. _

_ “Any way we can go any faster?” Ghoul yells as loud as he can over the noise.  _

_ “We’re already on the red line!” Jet yells back. “Are they gaining?” _

_ Ghoul focuses on the road, and the front of the white BL/ind issued car. It slowly creeps closer and closer to them against the mutual speed. “No!” He lies. _

_ He lines his green gun against his eyeline and focuses on the driver. It hits it’s shoulder, but that doesn’t stop it. Draculoids don’t feel pain, as far as Ghoul can tell.  _

_ Turns out he should have been focusing on the Drac in the passenger seat. It leans out the window with it’s stark white blaster in hand, and aims steady at Ghoul. _

_ A screech of tires. Blinding pain. And then everything goes white (It’s Ghoul’s least favorite color). _

He doesn’t remember anything after that, but it isn’t hard to tell. Now that he’s got that memory, he can feel a sticky bandage plastered to his cheek, too. It hurts when he moves his mouth, all the way to his jaw. The pull of stitches is persistent.

Suddenly a human emerges in the hallway outside his prison. He has dark hair and dull green eyes, with a matching dull smile. He’s wearing a white jumpsuit with the BL/ind logo on the breast pocket. 

Ghoul wastes no time flinging himself at the glass, banging his bandaged hand through stabs of pain and finding that it’s unfortunately double-paned. 

“WHERE IS JET STAR?” He screams at the worker. “WHERE IS HE?”

The worker blinks at Ghoul. “Hello Mr. Iero. May I call you Frank?”

“Where the fuck is he?” Ghoul’s voice drops to a dangerous growl. “Tell me, now. Where is my friend?”

The worker’s smile is unwavering. The ID card pinned to his chest labels him as Mr. Fitch. Despite the serious circumstances, Ghoul immediately thinks ‘Mr. Bitch’. 

“Tell me, dammit!” Ghoul snarls after another few seconds of silence. Fitch shifts his grip on the tray he’s carrying.

“Are you ready to eat, Frank? You must be hungry, living in such horrible conditions for so long.”

“I don’t want your fucking food,” Ghoul ignored the fact that his stomach felt shriveled. “Tell me where Jet Star is, now. Do you have him?   
“I’ve brought some medication with me as well,” Fitch says as if Ghoul didn’t speak at all. “It’s vitamins to help you recover more quickly.”

He sets the tray down into a white cylinder that’s halfway protruding through the wall of Ghoul’s cell. He pulls his hands out and presses a button and the hatch opens on Ghoul’s side, closing on the opposite. Clever.

“Go ahead and take it,” Fitch smiles. “You’re distressed, so there won’t be much of a routine for a few days until you’ve calmed down. You can keep the tray until next meal time, okay?”

Ghoul gently picks up the tray. There’s some sort of meat on it, with green vegetables and white mush. It smells better than anything he’s ever eaten. Next to the vegetables is a little paper cup with two white pills.

Ghoul throws it at the other glass wall. The meat and vegetables leave slimy trails on their way to the floor, but the white mush is surprisingly sticky. 

He looks at Fitch, and is pleased to see that his smile has fallen.

“Oh dear,” the man sighed, shaking his head a bit. “You  _ are _ distressed. I know the desert is a traumatizing place, Frank. No one here is upset with you.”   
“Eat shit,” Ghoul spits at him for good measure.

“You must be feeling awfully dirty, even with those clean clothes,” Fitch eyed him up and down with an air of false concern. “Someone will be along soon to help you to the showers, okay? You rest up until then.”

“You take your shower and shove it up your ass. Where is Jet Star?”

“Bye for now, Frank.”


	2. 2

Ghoul wished he could say he hated everything about the shower. The truth was he only hated most of it. He hadn’t been clean in a long, long time. The water seemed to soak into his skin like rain into desert soil. It was silly, but he felt like a weight had been lifted off him.

It would have been better if he didn’t have a BL/ind worker watching him and smiling like he was enjoying the view (He shampooed himself, just so they wouldn’t touch him). The hot water stung his hand, which looked scraped to high hell without the bandages, and whatever gash was on his face (he swore that water leaked in through the gaps in the stitches). The worst part, however, was when they sat him down afterwards, wearing pants now but shirtless, and cut off his hair. He’d been growing it for a while, and it had finally touched his shoulders. Now it was in a buzz cut style, perfectly even all around. He didn’t like that clean feeling anymore.

When they led him back to his cell and left him alone, he noticed that they’d cleaned all the food off the glass wall. He remembered now that the white mush was called mashed potatoes. The pills sat in a little white cup on his white bedside table. He threw them on the floor and ripped the cup into little pieces.

Ghoul was used to being lonely, but not so much alone. He always had Jet Star with him, save from the first few weeks he’d been in the desert alone. Now Jet was off in another cell somewhere, probably with all his hair shaved off, all alone. Ghoul’s heart ached at the thought.

His eyes flitted to the glass wall. Not the one leading to the hallway--the one he’d thrown his food against. It led to another cell, though this one was empty. He wondered with a shiver of fear what had happened to its occupant. Past that was another cell, also empty. It all seemed very quiet and white and clean. It made Ghoul’s head ache. 

In front of the middle cell, in the hallway, was a sign with big black letters easily readable from Ghoul’s position. It appeared to be a schedule, with a clock right above it. 

7:00 - Lights on

8:00 - Breakfast

12:00 - Lunch

13:00 - Reeducation

15:00 - Showers

17:00 - Dinner

Suddenly the light dimmed, bringing the room into darkness. The sign was no longer visible, but the numbers on the electric clock (glowing white, of course) were clear. 22:00. Ghoul guessed what came next on the list. (Starts with L, ends with ights out)

The thing about living in the desert is that there’s always light. During the day, the blinding hot sun. Sometimes during the night you’d have the moon, but if you didn’t there was always the milky way, glowing with just enough orangey light to see the outlines of everything. 

Here, it was pitch black. There was the clock, but it’s glow didn’t reach far enough to outline the curves of Frank’s hands. He waved them in front of his eyes and saw nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut until little green spots began to dance in front of them. Besides the blood on his hands, it was the first color he’d seen since he’d come here. Everything was white or black. 

The silence was deafening. There was no Jet snoring quietly. No cicadas buzzing and droning for hours on end. No crickets chirping in the night. No coyotes singing their playful songs in the distance. Just dark, and quiet. There weren’t even any machines humming nearby, which Ghoul would have assumed to come from a place like this. Maybe the walls were soundproofed. 

It was so fucking quiet.

Ghoul decided to change that.

A quick gulp of air, then he clenched his fists and  _ screamed _ , leaning into the sound as if he was pushing his soul through his mouth. The sound was pleasant to his ear. There were no words, but his message was obvious. He paused for breath, then screamed again, drawing it out until he felt his vocal chords buzz and all the air left him.

Ghoul screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short alkgaksgn;akg it's a filler I suppose. 
> 
> Also it's worth mentioning that I came VERY close to naming this 'The Prisoner Next Door <3' heart included


End file.
